


30 Pieces of Silver to Find You

by vex_xed



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/F, Other, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vex_xed/pseuds/vex_xed
Summary: He promised resurrection to those who eat his flesh and drink his blood (Jn 6:53-59)on EASTER SUNDAY she is resurrectedberserker chanted back to being, protective personality made her first kill with scarred, stitched fingers-survive, survive, survive--whoever she was, she had to survive.[a post-war yumikel fic with a very finagled ressurected yumie because dammit, we need one.]
Relationships: Heinkel Wolfe & Tagaki Yumie, Takagi Yumie/Heinkel Wolfe, Takagi Yumie/Takagi Yumiko/Heinkel Wolfe
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

> **THE BEGINNING:**

_He promised resurrection to those who eat his flesh and drink his blood (Jn 6:53-59)_

on EASTER SUNDAY she is resurrected she desecrates the sabbath with her cries-30 years ago she would’ve laughed and said the sabbath disrespected her.

she wrenches herself from the dirt, wet with relics-saint’s tears and alchemists’ whim, limb for limb she is put together for a will not her own.

she is not dead, yet she has not been granted eternal life, she is the product of relics of lazarus, needle and enchanted thread dragged through the bone dust of saints.

she is without mind but one for survival. whoever raised her from the hallowed vatican ground she rested in survived london.

whoever raised her had intent with taking her closed casket and shattered sword to breast like a babe, nourishing her ground at night as a mourner on ash Wednesday, for 40 days they fasted, for 40 days they gave up godly intention and buried her with stolen artifacts.

for 40 days they poured tears and holy water onto her grave, for 40 days they etched the name of god into the dirt. when she broke ground, it was without words and solely with blood. it disrupted the flowers religiously left by her headstone, defied the natural order of purgatory she was doomed to.

the first true waking brought dreams of IVs and blue light that healed her vocal chords-but her first words weren’t prayers she couldn’t remember she screamed berserker chanted back to being, protective personality made her first kill with scarred, stitched fingers-survive, survive, survive--whoever she was, she had to survive


	2. Chapter 1-She is Risen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hello, all! Please forgive the heavy poetic prose and the suspension of belief used to create this AU. Like most things in Hellsing, it has some holes that logic is begging me to fix...but I feel like those patches will come in time.  
> Please enjoy this chapter as our two protagonists begin to circle eachother "like starved lions" as my RP partner would say. Writing a post-war Yumie whose brain needs constant stimuli in order to regain her memories is...challenging, especially because I love the personality that we've all grown to see built up over the years. Snark, mischief, and life were so much present, but, well.   
> Heinkel's not the same, either. When one half of a whole dies, the other one doesn't exactly thrive.  
> I wrote this to the sAD AS FUCK playlist "I should've worshipped her sooner" on 8tracks. It's Yumikel. I'll cry later.
> 
> Also, I named the waitress after my great grandmother, which feels weird...but it was late at night and I needed an Italian name.

_For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead comes also through a man._   
_1 Corinthians 15:21 | NIV_

Daylight buzzed with activity, and night left the city of Rome wanting.  
Its stone streets and ancient buildings with their solemn statues stared down at nightclub-goers throbbing to the pulses of mind-numbing music. Its alleyways held meetings between beggars and rats.   
And its bars? Their furthest corners were home to two things: flickering lightbulbs and Heinkel Wolfe. 

They couldn't drink any more in public, and at all was up for debate given the...situation with their face. Cheeks constantly traced by a devilish grimace, Heinkel had opted to forego repair on the gunshot damage to their visage and instead walked the streets as the monster that had been born that night in London. 

Heinkel had fufilled their mission, but wasn't thirty pieces of silver richer. Instead they haunted old spaces, sticking to the sidelines and dark spaces, growling at the waitresses that asked if they wanted a refill on a still-full drink. One day, one damn day they'd down it like a normal person and not this...regenerated thing that needed a straw.   
_Like a fucking child._

  
Thirty years ago, they had rounded pool tables past curfew with the confidence of a strutting peacock, hoping to impress the young nun in the corner sipping at her soda water. They were Iscariot, they could do what they wanted. Better yet, they were together.  
They could do anything.  
But now, Rome lacked that characteristic giggle, and Heinkel had to steel themself to not lash out and break the nearest anything everytime they heard something that sounded like--

_the coming of spring, light and airy_   
_the fall of night, breathless_   
_fresh laundry and sunshowers_

\-- **her.**  
Tab left unpaid, the regenerator failed to drink and dash, opting to slam their hand against the table. Thirty pieces of silver-bullshit. Drinking? Bullshit. Being in public with this warm throng of idiots? Bullshit.

**"I'll pay next time."**

The only satisfactory idea coming to mind at the moment was storming out a rickety back door, disappearing into the streets. 

This past week's sermon had been about considering oneself rich even in the poorest of circumstances, but Heinkel wasn't buying it-not on Iscariot's salary. Not on their vow of poverty. Rome and the Vatican were rich with arts, culture, lovers and families. Rome was full of things to bless, growing by the day. 

Heinkel was having a hard time seeing it, even with these fine-tuned eyes. All they saw were the four walls of their cell, bruised from fist after mechanical fist slammed into them. If those walls could talk, they'd speak of passion at nightfall and morning arguments over cold feet. They'd see candlelit discussions over the Bible, over a narcissist for a boss, fights over scraps of a paycheck. Now they only saw gun parts: bullets, oil, powder, and the weapon that made them all fluid.

Rome was rich with the scent of death; its vampires skulked in the shadows, afraid to call much attention to a midnight snack. Its churches held the sacred and protected their flock with blessed bullets.  
And its graves?  
One berserker poorer.  
\----  
Just as she'd finished removing the still-full drink that remained unpaid for from the table she never bothered to wipe down, Angelina faced another rush of cold air from the bar's open front door.  
"I swear, if you're here to pay your tab, just forget about it," she started, "we only waste a beer a week on you anyways."

But there was no tall blonde in the doorway this time, though the damage to the door could easily have stated otherwise. Angelina D'Atello had been waitressing for five years and had never seen her dive actually go cold before. Its wooden beams and polished metal bartop lent themselves usually to historic charm, but the dredges of society that occupied _La Tarentella_ tonight stood frozen. All eyes were on the door.  
The occupant was a shorter woman, sidling up to the bar with a slight limp visible under loose jeans and a black T-shirt that had seen better days. Messy black hair ended with abrupt blunt tips around mid-back, as if cut by an amateur with their first pair of barber's clippers.   
Something was off.

"...Can I get you something?"  
A mumble was her response.  
Angelina decided to try harder-all in the name of customer service, of course.   
"Do you want a drink?"  
Hollow eyes met her own and she saw red-not out of anger, but pure cold crimson staring back at her from underneath a mess of bangs. Those eyes spoke to Angelina, and what they said was all backwards and jumbled.  
 **"I....have....silver."**  
God, her breath smelled like the earth and groaned twice as loudly. 

Silver? What was the woman talking about?   
"...We only take cash here, are you..." she didn't look like it "...from around here?"  
The eyes narrowed.  
 **"Thirty...pieces...of silver in my right hand."**  
"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

_All in the name of customer service._

The last thing Angelina D'Atello would remember were hands around her neck, cold lips at her ear as heat popped from the gradual pressure applied to her veins. Customers were yelling, but none were coming to her aid. A low breath, almost sensual in nature, coaxed her into oblivion as her air supply rapidly approached critical levels of need. Thirty pieces of silver? What the **fuck** had that meant?  
  
"... **and a rope."  
  
** The voice was a rasp. The voice couldn't have been from here. The voice couldn't have been _human_.   
  
As her strangled scream began a chorus which would echo a bloodstained bar, Angelina had one last lingering thought- _service jobs don't pay enough._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm jamming religious magic together with Hellsing's gift for plotholes and BS, please be gentle as I embark on this journey of Suspended Belief lol


End file.
